Filius Impavidus
by Calen Narwain
Summary: ...From the ground, Vayne’s head seemed to be crowned in sunlight—a golden victory wreath. Lucius bowed his head with an ironic smile, silently cursing the gods for showing favor to one so unworthy... Ch. 4 is up! Vayne victorious.
1. The Last Dungeon

Author's Note: Although I should be studying for a government test, it seemed important to get this little scene on paper. I don't know if I'm going to finish it just yet (I've got a crazy schedule), but if there's even the slightest inkling of interest, I'll get it done. Just for the record, I find Vayne Solidor to be one of the most interesting and dynamic characters in FFXII. This is a little glimpse at his dark past.

Do enjoy. A definite warning for moderate gore.

Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy XII. I did, however, give those mysterious older brothers of Vayne's names and histories for the purpose of this story.

_695 Old Valendian_

His cries echoed down the shadowy corridors of the Robur Ultimus, the last and deepest dungeon of the mighty Archadian fortress. Not in his darkest dreams had he ever imagined this: his own wrists held fast by the heavy iron shackles; his own blood streaming down his back. It was with a twisted half-smile that he chided himself for making sure the dungeon masters were so well-trained. They certainly knew the art of pain. His screams were testament to that.

The black-gloved hand went up silently and the dungeon master stayed his whip. Clodius Nerva Solidor, second son of Emperor Gramis, raised his head. The blood on his back was warm, and he surprised himself with the hazy recollection of a summertime swim. Another half-smile at this: _Summer afternoons? Now? _Even weakened, he retained an inkling of his wry humor.

Somewhere in the darkness he heard the thick, joyless sound of clapping.

"I would expect nothing less from a man of your reputation," said the owner of the black-gloved hands, coming forward into the ring of light. "Most men would have swooned by now from the pain, but you… _you_—" He leapt forward and his fingers found Clodius's throat. "You're quite another matter, aren't you?" His voice was a low hiss. Clodius gurgled incoherently, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

"Commander of the 3rd Imperial Fleet, an accomplished strategist, a _Solidor_—" He spat this last word with bitter contempt. The fingers relinquished their hold on his neck and retreated back into the darkness.

"It took months to figure out how you had fooled father so completely. I used every trick I knew to uncover your treachery." _Treachery?_ Clodius's dark eyes shot up in disbelief.

"You know what the penalty is for _treason_, don't you?" His younger brother was circling him now, the brother he had held in his lap and sheltered from bad dreams in the night. Clodius heard the footsteps stop abruptly behind him, a muffled shuffling, like something being passed, and then—

_Whshck! Whshck! Whshck!_ The stripes came down hard and fast. Clodius shut his eyes tight and pursed his lips, trying in vain to contain his screams. Twenty times the whip came down, and twenty times he heard his brother roar in unsuppressed rage. He marveled for a moment at Vayne's strength. Only sixteen years old and he had the force of two men. _No, three_. This last half-smile bent into a grimace at the final blow.Spent, Vayne tossed the whip aside and came around to face his brother.

"You should know," he said, panting slightly, "there is nothing I wouldn't do for House Solidor." He bent over, his hands clasping his gold-girded knees. Seeing Vayne's thin shoulders shake with his every heaving breath reminded Clodius of skinned knees and of bandages, of chasing bumblebees and tearing through the underbrush. The smallest of smiles spread slowly across his lips, even as Vayne straightened and drove a dagger into his belly.

"You see, Lord Brother, there is a difference between you and I." Vayne's hold on the dagger was firm as he pushed it smartly into his brother's flesh.

"I am unafraid of consequences."

Any reviews are welcome. Thanks for reading, everyone.


	2. The Duty of Archadian Sons

Author's Note: Well, I said what I meant and I meant what I said (thank you, Dr. Seuss!), and I've decided to continue on with this story. A big thanks goes out to Glenn393 for the kind words. Enjoy this chapter and thanks for reading.

* * *

The Duty of Archadian Sons 

The ascent from the dank dungeons gave Vayne the impression of climbing back out of Hell. He emerged at the far south end of the garden courtyard to the slap of cool evening air on his face and looked over his shoulder at the dark opening to the dungeons. The doorway seemed to breathe, like a huge gaping mouth, just waiting to swallow him up again. The fading sunlight cast a deep red light on the stone walls, like splashes of blood. Turning away quickly, he shut his eyes and thought resolutely of something less frightening. _Look at me_, he rebuked himself silently, _still afraid._

His personal guard was quick to surround him. Their captain, Glabius, led them through the labyrinthine garden paths. Vayne stopped a moment at a fountain and peered at his reflection. His eyes widened at the speckling of blood on his face and neck. He touched them with a gloved hand, wiping a new streak of red on his pale skin. His face contorted in disgust, and he ripped the gloves off his hands, throwing them to the ground.

Glabius turned around and held up his arm, ordering the guard to halt. He looked on at the second youngest Solidor in some interest. "My Lord?"

Vayne was huffing and puffing, scrubbing his face and hands in the cool water of the fountain. His teeth were bared and glinted oddly in the sunset. He stopped suddenly and stepped back, his face still pressed in the soft flesh of his hands. Arms coming down to his sides, Vayne looked out over the flowers and shrubbery, glowing red drops falling down the end of his chin.

"Mother's snow-blossoms are doing well." He dried his face and walked to them, bringing a snowy bud to his nose. Its sweet smell reminded him vaguely of childhood, and he relished in it, closing his eyes. He surprised himself with a smile.

"Glabius." The man came forward. Vayne held the little bud out. "Have this taken to my mother. Tell her I will see her before we both retire." The man bowed and entrusted the task to one of the guard. The entourage moved forward then, and into the shade of the palace walls.

* * *

His father's chambers of state were growing darker by the minute. Gramis hadn't moved from his seat. Vayne could see the tension building beneath his smooth forehead. He waited for the invitation to speak, knowing full well his father already knew what he was here to say. 

"So then, Vayne Carudas Solidor, what news do you bring me?" Gramis's voice was low and gravelly, but every word held the force of an emperor. Vayne walked to the windows and looked out over Archades, dimly aware that he was staring through his own reflection.

"It is done, Father."

Gramis stared blankly across the room. Vayne could see the fluttering of his pulse at his neck; it was quickening by the moment.

"Done?" The word was scarcely more than a croak.

"Yes, it is done." The repetition seemed to verify the finality of it. Even Vayne felt mildly surprised at hearing himself speaking so candidly about murdering his own brother. He moved to lean on the edge of his father's desk.

Gramis's eyes were closed, and to the untrained eye it may have seemed as though he had fallen asleep in his chair. But Vayne had familiarized himself with the emperor's ways, and between the fluttering pulse and the taut lines of his mouth, he knew he was very much awake and very much in pain.

"Did he suffer overmuch?"

Vayne's hand found his chin and he raised his eyes to the ceiling in speculation.

"He suffered the way a traitor of the Archadian Empire suffers." Gramis's eyes clenched a little tighter. Vayne stood for a moment; he could feel the rift forming, and the job was only half-done. Gramis gave a small, sharp breath, the precursor to a sob. His third son thought it best to leave him to his grief.

"I'm going to see Mother before I retire to my chambers," he said, retreating to the door. "I do hope you sleep well, Father." It was only with the resounding _clunk_ of the door closing behind him that Vayne heard his father release his wailing sobs.

* * *

Night had fallen. Vayne entered his chambers and changed into a soft blue tunic before going to see his mother. He didn't want to hurt Larsa with the sharp edges of his armor. He entered his mother's room and immediately felt at peace. The long sheets of Bhujerban silk that draped over her four-poster bed were the colors of the sea, translucent greens and blues. She heard him before she saw him, and came out from behind her changing screen. Her long black hair was loose, released from the pins of polished bone that usually held it in place. Her white arms were bared, and in them she held the youngest Solidor, not yet a full year old. 

Vayne smiled and took the child from her arms, holding him to his chest and kissing his forehead. Larsa's huge blue eyes looked up at him with evident liking, and the child rested his head on his brother's shoulder. Vayne could feel the small breath at his neck and nuzzled his younger brother protectively. He was like a little bird, so soft and small and fragile.

"Did you get my message?" His mother nodded, walking serenely toward her bedside table. She held up a vase full of snow-blossoms.

"I did, and I immediately sent the man out to fetch more for me." She took Larsa from his arms and placed the babe in his gilded crib. His eyes remained closed, and it wasn't long before they could hear the evenness of his sleepy breathing.

"He is so easy to care for, this one," she said. "Never a fuss."

Vayne looked on the sleeping child and felt his chest tighten with guilt. Could he possibly tell her that he had murdered her second son? His brow furrowed.

"Mother, I—" She held a finger to his lips to silence him.

"No, you needn't say it aloud. The Law demands Justice against traitors, and so Justice you served." Her hands traced his face's form lightly. "I would rather you upkeep your duty to House Solidor than cloud your judgment with sentimental nonsense."

His blue eyes met her deep brown ones, and for a moment he wanted to throw himself down at her feet and beg forgiveness. But no inkling of sorrow found its way into her eyes. He wrapped his arms around her waste and buried his face in her shoulder.

"Mother, this is not the end. Lucius, he—"

"I am well aware of Lucius's ties to the radicals of Landis. If caught, he is to be served just as his younger brother was. I am prepared for that. Duty to one's country is more important than anything in the world." She held him at arms' length, looking into his face for some sign of hesitation. Although his eyes were misty, she saw only ambition burning behind them. She placed a cool hand on his face. He closed his eyes at the touch.

"Dearest one, you must never lose this that you have." Her other hand rested upon his chest, over his heart. "Be brave, my little son. You have my blessing, always."

Larsa gave a little hiccough in his sleep, and the two laughed softly. It was a moment before Aria Candida Solidor spoke again.

"Protect him, won't you?"

Vayne's chest grew tight again, but it was not guilt that he felt any longer. He rested his arm around his mother's shoulders and held her slight body to his.

"I promise. No harm will ever come to him by my hand or any other. I would first die."

She tilted her head back and kissed her son on the cheek before moving away. He watched her shadow behind her changing screen for a moment before walking silently from the room.

* * *

As always, any reviews welcome. Hope you enjoyed this second chapter of Filius Impavidus (or Fearless Son). Up next, we have the search for the infamous Lucius Celsus Solidor and the Landis Radicals. Gabranth (one of my other favorites) will almost certainly make an appearance in chapter three. 


	3. Hunter and Prey

**Author's Note:** Hope you all enjoy this third chapter. We'll definitely seeing more of Gabranth in the future (his role in this chapter is rather minor). Of course, in keeping with the timeline of Vayne's life, we'll be seeing Doctor Cid soon, and (quite probably) his third son, Ffamran, too.

* * *

**Hunter and Prey**

The hooded figure's breath was shallow as it hurried up to the unassuming red door in the furthest reach of Molberry. It was night, but the streets were by no means dark. Every business in Archades made use of security lamps, and the marble walkway shone a curious shade of yellow. The figure pulled a slip of parchment out of his pocket and examined it under the nearest lamp. Yes, he had come to the right place.

Raising a gnarled hand, he knocked smartly, stepped back, and waited. It was unnerving how quiet the city was at night. Not even the clink-clanking of armor sounded in the distance. There were no crickets here in this industrial super-center, no owls, no trees. He would never have come to this place if had hadn't run into some very useful _information_. He much preferred the dregs of Old Archades to this artificial place. But thinking about his reward gave him a little courage, and he straightened his robes just as the tiny slot at the top of the door slid opened.

"State your business." The order was barely audible, the ghost of a whisper. The old man approached the door and stood on tip-toe to speak directly into the tiny opening.

"I've a message to deliver to a man they call Geta. I'm to present this information only to him."

The man behind the door seemed to get the hint. He disappeared for a moment and the old man heard the lock click open. The old one shuffled inside, only to be grabbed roughly from behind. The doorman pulled his head back and held a dagger up to the exposed flesh of his neck.

"Come in, but touch nothing. Never speak of what you see here, no matter how much you are offered, you hear, Street-Ear?" The Street-Ear Jacovian nodded ever so slightly (he didn't want to slash his own throat with nods of an overzealous nature) and was released. He straightened his robes again and massaged the sore spot on the back of his head muttering something about "ruffians."

The doorman led him down a series of dark hallways and into a small library where a fire burned cheerfully in its grate. He motioned briefly to a seat and left. Jacovian sank into the chair closest to the fire and held his hands up to it. A few minutes passed before another man came through the door. He had dark hair cropped short like a soldier, and his eyes were deep blue. He sat down opposite the street-ear and fixed him with the most appraising of stares. Jacovian swallowed nervously.

"You wish to speak with Geta." It was not so much a question as a pointed observation. The old man nodded.

"I have information he may find useful. And I'm willing to, ah, sell it to him." Jacovian finished his sentence doubtfully; he was certain that the man's dark eyes had flashed at the word "sell."

"Indeed." The blue-eyed man looked at the fire for a moment, lost in thought. Jacovian had almost convinced himself that perhaps coming here wasn't as good for business as he had originally thought when the other dropped a heavy satchel of gil on the table between them.

"How much will this buy me?"

The old man let out a sigh of relief. "So you are this Geta I've been searching for? Thank the gods! You're the hardest client I've ever tracked down. Digging for you was like searching for five gil in a big steaming pile of chocobo—"

He stopped himself and looked up at Geta quickly, but the man was (to his great relief) smiling widely. "I must keep myself hidden, my friend. And if you had the skill to find me, you most certainly know why." Jacovian gave a solemn nod.

"So it's true what they say down in Old Archades, eh? You are Lucius Celsus Solidor, First Son of the Emperor?" It was Geta's turn to nod this time.

"I've been in hiding for four months, ever since Clodius was killed."

The silence grew long between them. Geta cleared his throat.

"So what have you heard, Street-ear?"

Jacovian reached into his robes and pulled out the slip of parchment he had inspected earlier. Unfolding it, he passed it across the table. Geta's eyes shot across it, and he looked up in shock.

"Vayne is closing in on the rebellion?"

"That's what I've heard, my lord. You are considered the lowest of traitors and are to be apprehended on sight." Geta gave a heavy sigh and leaned back in his chair.

"I thought we'd have more time!" Jacovian didn't really know what to say to this. It wasn't as if _he_ was the reason these Landinian rebels were on the brink of arrest. He shuffled his feet nervously and scratched at his nose. Geta gave a small ironic chuckle.

"Thank you, Street-ear." He crumpled the parchment, leaned over, and tossed it into the fire. "And if you hear anything else," he began, dark eyes glittering in the firelight, "I'll pay you twice as much as your highest bidder." Jacovian's eyes went wide. Information like this could go for thousands of gil. If he played his cards right, he stood to make quite a fortune.

Geta caught the look on the old man's face and seemed to know his mind. "So I can count on your fidelity, then?" For what felt like the tenth time that evening, Jacovian nodded.

* * *

Dressed in the guise of an Akademy scholar, Geta walked from Modberry to Trant and back again, eyes moving carefully over the colorful crowd. If his information was correct, Vayne had discovered his involvement with the Landinians and the location of their Archadian hideout. The base had been relocated accordingly throughout that morning, the reasoning behind it being that they'd attract less attention in full daylight than in sneaking about at night. Despite all the precautions the Landinians had taken, he expected to see Vayne's guard emerge at any moment. 

He wasn't disappointed. Before long, he spied the flowing cape of a Judge Magister heading up the steps on the far side of Molberry, flanked by a small force of 20 or so men. There was no mistaking that helmet; the curved horns of a Gigas were Gabranth's most identifying feature. Moving closer, he noticed the insignia on the other men's arms: Vayne's red seal of state, the mark of his personal guard. Gabranth reached the door and, to Geta's mild surprise, kicked it down with all his force. His voice rang oddly from behind his helmet.

"Bring me the rebels. I want them all alive."

The small contingent was quick to comply and headed into the house, Gabranth bringing up the rear. Geta thanked his stars that the last of the library scrolls had been moved over an hour ago; Gabranth's men would find nothing of consequence. Still, he engaged himself in a somewhat droll conversation with nearby gentry, watching the doorway out of the corner of his eye.

Five full minutes passed and nothing. Geta could feel the hope brimming up in his chest, and then he heard it: the struggling gasps of a captive. He recognized the man dragged from the house, Tycho, the bookkeeper. His heart sank at the sight of the next couple who emerged: Archadian guards carrying armfuls of scrolls. So the last of it hadn't been moved? He remembered how Jacovian didn't quite meet his eye when he delivered the message (and how he had attributed it to nervous fear). Geta felt the nausea hit him like the flat of a sword to the stomach.

"Take the bookkeeper and his charges to Lord Vayne." Gabranth motioned lazily to Tycho and the scrolls. "Tell him his brother was not found at either location." _At either location? _So Jacovian had betrayed them completely. Geta did some very quick thinking. Surely he could make his escape from the bowels of Old Archades. But before he could even detach himself from the group of gentry (the oldest of which was rambling passionately about Viera society), he saw it: Vayne's banner, fluttering ominously over the heads of ardent and gentry alike. Beneath it, wearing the coolest of expressions, was Vayne himself. He approached Gabranth, and the helmeted head gave a curt nod.

"My Lord."

"Spare me the formalities, Judge Magister. Have you located my wayward brother?"

"No, my Lord." Vayne's discontent was etched in every line of his face.

"I feel that I have waited overlong for my prey, Gabranth," he said wearily. "We've crushed ever rebel pocket in the vicinity and no captive admits to this "Geta's" involvement." He pushed back several strands of dark hair that had fallen into his face. "He always did inspire unwavering devotion in his men." Vayne looked off into the distance and heaved a heavy sigh. "Perhaps we _shall_ have to count on the word the Street-ear," he said. "He has been twice right thus far."

Gabranth inclined his head slightly, the merest suggestion of an affirmation. "Truly this Jacovian has proven himself our man." Vayne snorted derisively.

"Only because I bought his loyalty."

The two stood silently for a moment, the bright sun glinting off of helmet and hair. As though he was aware that someone was staring, Vayne glanced over at a gaggle of nearby gentry and noticed a young man dressed in the garb of an Akademy scholar. He was unmistakable, even with hair cropped so short. He leaned toward Gabranth.

"Have the area sealed off. I want the full questioning of every citizen in Molberry." His dark eyes followed the brisk step of the scholar as he separated from the group. Vayne motioned at him with a black gloved hand.

"Start with him."

* * *

He awoke to find himself lying facedown on the cold, moldy floor of a dungeon. The room was pitch-black, and the pungent scent of the dead and rotting hit him like a boulder to the head. Geta reached out into the darkness. His arm hit the wall before it had extended fully. The other arm fared no better. He was caged in the smallest of chambers, a windowless waiting room for death. There was a sharp click and the door was dragged open. The dim torchlight felt as powerful as the noontime sun to his eyes, and he held up his arms to shield himself. The dungeon master, face hidden behind a gaping mask, pulled him up roughly and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of flour. 

Geta was tied to an iron bed, secured at the waist, neck, ankles, and wrists by heavy bands of metal. His vision faded in and out, but just before he fainted he heard a soft, cruel laugh. His younger brother leaned over him, a wide smile baring his gleaming teeth.

"So glad you could join us, Lord Brother."

The dungeon master chuckled darkly and began to sharpen his knife.

* * *

Wow, this story is really coming along! It's proven a much easier task than I could ever have anticipated. (Quite frankly, it seems to be writing itself.) I promise to update soon. We do, after all, have a murder to witness. 

Thanks for reading, and as always, all reviews are welcome.


	4. The Execution

**Author's Note: **This chapter has been long in coming, so it's extra long and extra juicy for your enjoyment. It seems that school finally caught up with me these last two weeks (it's getting closer to finals and every professor knows it's crunch time). Henceforth, Geta shall be known by his right name, Lucius. And yes, the story of Eugenius is modelled after that of Icarus (and, no, I don't own it).

Enjoy this fourth chapter. I apologize, as neither Cid nor young Ffamran will appear just yet.

* * *

**Chapter Four: The Execution**

Everything looked blurry. The torchlight danced above his head. He was zooming through a tunnel, lights flashing passed his unfocused eyes. He felt nauseous. Even with the dungeon master's two cold hands holding either side of his face, he couldn't seem to regain his balance. He was falling, deeper and deeper, into the center of the earth.

"I think that's enough for the moment." Vayne's voice rang cold and hard into the gloom. The tiny crystal of glowing rock was lifted away and Lucius's vision cleared. The dungeon master pulled his hands up, and the strength of the magicks ceased their pull on his heart. The feeling of despair lessened somewhat, but if Lucius focused his sight on any dark corner, he could see the glaring eyes of demons peering menacingly from the underworld. He took a breath and was suddenly aware of how wet he was; his perspiration had soaked through even the heavy leather jerkin of a prisoner.

"Trust you to think of a torture so vile as this one," he managed to spat. Vayne gave him the merest hint of a smile and picked up the small rock.

"You think this a vile torture?" He motioned around himself, the dark magicite glinting in the flickering orange light. "I obviously overestimated your pain threshold." Vayne looked up, his blue eyes deceptively innocent. "Why, Clodius could take _much_ more pain, and he was quite a bit less hardy than you."

The jest hit home, and Lucius struggled violently in his bonds. Vayne laughed, a low cold laugh.

"You are a fool." It was more of a dismissal than anything. He turned to the dungeon master and placed the magicite in his hand. "Use whatever means necessary to get him to confess. We need to stomp out the entire rebellion and we need his information to do it. Those scrolls held nothing of importance." He had started walking away when something else dawned on him. "Oh, and do make sure not to kill him. He is to be beheaded for the pleasure of the court, and I doubt my father would appreciate depriving the court of such a spectacle."

The masked man went down in a low bow. Vayne sauntered passed him, positively radiant with triumph.

* * *

_So bright… deceptively so_. Lucius was led roughly up the stone steps and out of Rogur Ultimus. The courtyard had never looked greener to his eyes, the flowers never so vivid. He wondered briefly if that's always how things looked to people who were about to die; he'd always heard that the world grew darker. He was ushered passed the cool openness of the atrium, the soft tinkling of his mother's favorite fountain a mere trifle compared to the pounding of his captors' booted feet. 

Out behind the kitchens, passed the back gate, and into the back of a waiting wagon—Lucius's hands were bound together with iron shackles and fastened to the wall of the coach. He peered blearily through the cracks in the wood.

"Wot's to be done with 'im, eh?" said one of the guards to the other. Wiping sweat from his brow, his companion grunted.

"'E's to be taken to the arena. Lord Vayne 'as special plans for 'is _execution_." He gave a low, burly laugh. "Summat of a treat, I 'ear." Lucius's eyes went wide. This could be nothing good.

"Anyway, take 'im away," the second said, addressing the driver this time. "Lord Vayne said they were 'spectin' 'im."

The driver obliged, and the wagon set off with a dull creak. Lucius pulled his hands as high as he could muster and bowed his head.

"Gods, if ever you have shown mercy, show me mercy now. Do not allow my death to go unmourned, or my murder unavenged." He brought his hand to his mouth, his teeth set in the soft flesh between his forefinger and thumb, and bit down hard. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and he smeared the little rivulet upon his forehead.

"Upon my blood," he was looking up this time, at the dark wooden ceiling. "Upon my blood, let it be so."

* * *

Larsa had been crying for the better part of an hour. Aria bounced him fruitlessly upon her knee. She had tried everything she knew—burping, changing, the hiding game, the blanket game, honey, a warm bath—but the littlest Solidor insisted on raging, for the first time in his mother's memory. Her servant woman Vanessa, a lady from the holy mountain, had tried singing psalms and crushing sweet galbana lilies, but no soothing remedy had yet worked. 

"Perhaps it best if we let him tire himself out, Mistress," she said for the fourth time that hour. Too exhausted to snap out an argument, she gave a defeated nod and lay Larsa on his soft blue coverlet. Freed from his mother's arms, the youngest Solidor began thrashing about, screaming, if it was possible, even louder than before. Truly at a loss as to what to do, Aria called the one person she knew might make a difference.

"Send for Vayne," she said to one of her attendants. "Tell him it's urgent."

Not five full minutes later, Vayne appeared, clothed simply in a deep red tunic. The problem was apparent, and he approached the crib cautiously.

"I've tried everything!" Aria blurted in despair. "He won't heed my coos, he refuses milk, he's not dirty, nothing's _wrong_ with him!" Vayne placed a hand on Larsa's belly and the little boy ripped his body away, as if the hand had burned him.

"He doesn't have a fever, does he?" Aria shook her head.

"No, he's perfectly healthy. I had the nurse come in first thing." Vayne picked the child up and bounced him slightly in his arms. Larsa's wails lessened somewhat.

"What are you on about, hmm?" The soft rumble of Vayne's voice seemed to calm him, and he hiccoughed between sobs, his little voice losing some of its force. "There we go, that's right, little brother," Vayne pet his head lovingly. "Shhh, don't cry anymore, Larsa." Aria watched them both, a look of utter disbelief etched on her face.

"I can't believe you calmed him!" She plopped down on the bed, and Vayne sat down next to her. "Truly, I was right to call you." Vayne smiled. Larsa burped.

"Ha ha! You little imp." He held him close, then passed the babe to his mother. "Perhaps a good story will make him sleepy." Vayne leaned his head on his mother's shoulder. "Tell him the one about the foolish Kiltias priest who wanted to fly." Aria rocked Larsa, whose eyes had already begun to close, cleared her throat and began.

* * *

The din in the arena was deafening. In the hold beneath the pit, Lucius was still, trying desperately to steady his breathing. The crowd was ready for action. He could hear the coeurls' raging roars as they ripped their prey apart. Petty criminals were always thrown into the pit first. A light shone on his face and he gazed up into it. 

"Pull him up and get him dressed." It was Vayne. Lucius could feel his pulse quicken in wrath.

"Now, now, Brother, don't look at me like that." He was smiling. "You must look your absolute best for all your adoring fans." The crowds above gave an appreciative whoop; the coeurls had apparently succeeded in their little game and were moving on to the second wave of criminals.

Lucius's clothes were ripped from his body and he stood, naked, before his younger brother. Vayne eyed him with complete indifference then turned to the head servant.

"Did you manage to procure the Kiltias' robes I asked for?" The man's bald head was shining with sweat, and it glistened when he bowed.

"Yes, Master." He held up a complete set of Kiltias garb.

"Good." Vayne circled his brother, now eyeing his body with some interest. "Yes, they'll just about fit you, I think." Lucius's face was impassive, betraying none of the fury that burned within him. Vayne chuckled.

"You must be wondering what the robes are for, eh, Brother?" Lucius continued to stare straight ahead, mouth resolutely shut. Vayne's eyes clouded, and a curious red flush spread over his face. He moved closer to Lucius, until his mouth was right by his ear, his cold armor pressing into his brother's warm flesh. The blow came quickly, but Lucius wasn't expecting it, and he fell to his knees, coughing.

"You will answer me when I address you, _slave_."

The words were cold, but Vayne's eyes were even colder. For a moment, the brothers were locked in combat, gaze against gaze, deep blue drowning in deep blue. From the ground, Vayne's head seemed to be crowned in sunlight—a golden victory wreath. Lucius bowed his head with an ironic smile, silently cursing the gods for showing favor to one so unworthy.

The spell broken, Vayne snapped his fingers at the servants and moved away from his brother's crumpled form.

"Prepare him for the arena." He turned back, his face half in shadow. "Good luck today, Brother." With a mock bow, he disappeared down the hall.

* * *

"You return at just the right moment." Aria was dressed in a gown of red Bhujerban silk. Her beaded headdress tinkled faintly with her every move; the beads draped across her forehead looked like droplets of blood glistening in the sun. "They've already begun the countdown." Vayne sat to her side and glanced briefly to his right. 

"Father's not here? Where in Ivalice is he?" Aria leaned forward a bit, eyeing her husband's empty chair with some concern. She shrugged.

"Perhaps he plans to make something of an entrance, you know, for showmanship's sake."

As soon as the words left her mouth, the royal trumpets sounded and the arena went quiet. A caller announced the emperor's entrance, and out came Gramis, draped in the purple of his office, waving and looking serene. Again Vayne knew this emotionless front was just an act; the tightness of his hand and stiffness of his neck indicated how nervous he was. When he took his seat at Vayne's right, his third son could see the little bulge of his pulse beating out a frantic rhythm at his temple. Vayne raised his eyebrows slightly; he was very anxious indeed.

The emperor leaned over to Vayne.

"I am not going to announce this execution." Vayne predicted as much. With a little sigh, he stood and lifted his left arm high above his head. The crowd stilled again, poised for his announcement. Vayne cleared his throat.

"Citizens of Archades, loyal subjects of Emperor Gramis Gana Solidor, I, Vayne Carudas Solidor, do hereby condemn Lucius Celsus Solidor, first son and heir to House Solidor, to death." There was only a minor flurry of hurried whispers here; this came as no surprise. Vayne went on, his armor glinting in the high noon sun.

"He is convicted of high treason to the royal seat of the Archadian Empire and to House Solidor. Lucius Celsus Solidor was conspiring with Landinian rebels to overthrow the seat of Archadia and, effectively, to launch our country into a war with violent enemies." The crowd might have been hundreds of snakes.

"And so it is, with a heavy heart but a clear conscience that I condemn my brother for his heinous crimes." He raised his right fist to his heart. "May the gods be merciful in the afterlife." The cheers were deafening as he took his seat. His mother placed a warm, reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"You did wonderfully."

Vayne merely nodded, fixing his attention on the colorful jester that sprang forth from the bowels of the stadium, pulling out an oversized scroll and clearing his throat loudly.

"Welcome, one and all, on this most auspicious day!" More cheers. "We humbly present to you a farce of the most glorious proportions. We have our tragic hero Eugenius, a Kiltias priest and brilliant scholar, who one day dreamed of—" he gave a theatrical little turn "—something more!"

Lucius was dragged out, dressed in full Kiltias regalia, and forced to act, seated roughly at a dark circular platform that had been set in the center of the stadium. The crowd jeered.

"_Eugenius lived high up in a tower at sea with only his father for company. They had lost favor with their king and had been locked up for many years. There were no doors and no stairs, only one long window where they could watch the ocean below._

"_One night, Eugenius' father died, and the boy, grieving at his loss, decided that he would find a way to leave that place, for there was nothing left for him in that dark tower."_

Lucius mimed sobbing, leaning low over the nearest dead body. It reeked of rotting meat. The crowd was roaring its approval.

"_After ten days and ten nights of mourning, young Eugenius got an idea. He would escape his prison. Looking dolefully up at the sky, he sighed and pondered his fate._

"'_Oh, if only there was a way to reach the clouds above,' young Eugenius said. 'They look soft, much softer than goose down, and I would make myself a bed with them.'_

"_Then the young scholar was stuck with a terrific idea. He would make wings and fly away from all his troubles."_

Lucius was put to work, a great white sheet spread over his platform, long sticks of the finest wood thrust upon him, feathers, and wax aplenty. Somewhere in the recesses of his memory he remembered the myth of young Eugenius. If only he could remember how it ended…

"_Eugenius crafted himself a set of the finest wings you've ever seen, using only the purest white feathers that blew into his tower room. Using wax to glue everything together, he was soon ready to fly."_

A large set of wings was carried out to the center of the stadium. Lucius was fitted into them and attached to a wire. His eyes followed the thin black string all the way up to where a pulley extended from the end of a beam. His heart sank.

"_He flapped his arms like a bird and jumped bravely from his tower window. The wind caught him up and he floated upon it, truly a creature of the skies. But the feeling was so glorious and the air so warm and bright that Eugenius felt the urge to reach for the very sun itself."_

Lucius was lifted, now spread parallel to the ground, holding his arms and legs out stiffly as the servants had instructed him to do. The jeers of the crowd were as the sound of crows cawing to his ears. And they might well have been. Looking out over the sea of heads, he could see no one person, rather a coherent mob that seemed to breathe and move together, like the great belly of a snake.

_The young boy had been having nightmares again, and the story of Eugenius always seemed to drive the darkness away. Aria held her third son to her chest, petting his head softly. Vayne looked up to her, his cheeks wet with tears._

"_Tell me what happened to him, Mother," the young boy implored. "What happened to Eugenius?"_

He had reached the top. Lucius squinted up at the sun. How could he ever have thought it a friendly thing? He spat and cursed at it before going limp, looking instead at the very far away ground beneath him. He shook his head.

"Gods, I curse you for your cruelty!" He felt the pulley's slack loosening, and his body lowered several inches.

"_It's a very sad story, my poppet." Aria tucked in her son with the utmost tenderness. Vayne's blue eyes were honest and clear. _

"_Please tell me. Did he make it out alright?" Aria was silent for a moment before continuing. _

"_Eugenius became overconfident in his abilities," she began carefully. "And as he rose up, closer and closer to the sun, the wax holding his feathers together came undone and his wings failed him. He fell many miles, very, very far, and landed in the ocean."_

Lucius was only dimly aware that they had dropped him before everything went black. The mob shouted its approval.

* * *

"There is to be a feast tonight, in your honor." 

Vayne hardly registered his mother's words. His chest felt oddly heavy. Aria hurried behind her changing screen, her ladies helping her out of her red gown. She came out in naught but her under-things and went to him, holding out her hand. He took it.

He was only dimly aware of her arms around him, of her kisses wetting his cheeks. He felt oddly numb, and was thoroughly unnerved by it. He held her close to his chest, breathing in her sweet scent. She pulled away and touched his face softly, willing his eyes to meet her own.

"You ought to be happy," she said simply. He looked away again. Her voice turned stern. "You ought not to feel guilty. You were merely carrying out the law."

At this Vayne pulled away from her and threw himself on her bed, a child throwing a tantrum. She smiled a little, recognizing this sign of complacency; he would heed her words and brood no more.

"That's my good little son," she said.

* * *

**A/N: **And that was chapter four. Up next we have the meeting of Cid and Ffamran, Vayne's introduction to nethicite, and the start down a long dark path of ambition and lust for power. 


End file.
